Anthology
by Windslayer
Summary: A series of one shots and sketches in the lives of a consulting detective and his biographer, based upon a poetry anthology found in a cottage on the Sussex Downs. No particular order, non-slash.
1. Prolouge

There is a bookcase in the corner of a large sitting room in a cottage on the Sussex Downs.

In the morning the sunlight streaming through the windows pools onto the faded rug just in front of the bookcases' lower shelves, bringing light to its denizens for a few brief hours each day. Upon its bottom shelf, among various other volumes, sits a large book bound in green leather. A present, from one old friend to another, its surface conspicuously absent of the dust that covers its fellow companions on the shelf.

The spine of the book is cracked, the pages have been torn, folded and scribbled over in two sets of handwriting more times than either of the owners can count. The anthology, while being new compared to the residents of the cottage has come to resemble both of them in appearance and content.

It is not merely an anthology of poetry. It is an anthology of memories.


	2. The Sick Rose

_O, rose, thou art sick!_

_The invisible worm_

_That flies in the night_

_In the howling storm _

_Has found out thy bed _

_Of crimson joy_

_And his dark secret love_

_Does thy life destroy_

_-William Blake  
_

* * *

Again the needle.

Again the lie.

Three months of release from that horrendous vice ruined in an instant. I stand motionless in the doorway of our shared flat. Perhaps if I do not move into the room the scene will melt away and the nightmarish illusion will fly.

I blink, but the truth is still there.

He stands as motionless as I, fingers still reaching for the syringe, the look of surprise and guilt upon his face. I was not supposed to be back until late. I was not supposed to know.

It was not that long ago that he looked me square in the face and declared that he was done with the stuff, that the cocaine would never sprint its way through his veins again, that my advice would be heeded not only as a medical professional but as a friend.

More lies.

As I finally begin my dreadful step over the threshold he also finds his paralysis gone. Dropping his eyes from my face he hurriedly reaches for the needle and the bottle, as if to momentarily hide them from my sight would be to erase my memory of their existence. I wonder how much the solution was. Even more cocaine this time? How much longer, how much more before it would destroy the greatest mind in London?

There is no pity or disappointment this time. There is frustration and rage and not all of it is aimed at the man trying so desperately to hide his addiction.

He was able rescue royalty, shame the proudest of men and humble the strongest. I had been witness to him snatching lives from the jaws of death and public ruin, fight off five men at one time, and solve the most complicated of cases with a simple glance at the scene of a crime. He had had bones broken, concussions, been shot, stabbed, run over, and almost thrown off a cliff. The man had died and come back from the dead.

And even he could not resist the temptation of the drug's sweet release.

I turn away from him as I continue through the sitting room, eyes upon the steps to my room, and not on the figure that is now staring out the window, to all appearances disinterested in my existence, in my reproach. I slowly climb the steps to my room and my footfalls upon the stair scream the silence between us.

The first time I caught him at it was not long after our association began, so many years ago. I had passed a particularly sleepless night, the humidity in the air acting upon the pain in my shoulder and leg while the memories acted upon my dreams, warping them into a terrifying hell that I struggled to bear out in silence. I did not descend from my room until the day had well advanced into the afternoon.

That first time, and the many afterward, he was not ashamed. My concerns were mocked and made light of. There was no addiction, no issue. Nothing to be worried about. Nevertheless, I did not stop berating him for what I called his one vice.

It was not until several years later that the methods changed. The bottle and needle were not displayed openly on the mantle for the world to see. They were hidden away in the drawer and the episodes grew further and further apart. The habit was sleeping.

After I had moved back, the habit began afresh. I had begged and pleaded with the man to cease the senseless destruction of his mind and senses. I cited recent journal articles, statements made by prominent figures in the scientific community, added my own commentary as a friend. But it was of no use. By then even he had agreed that he needed to stop. He should stop. But he could not.

_That_ day is still fresh in both our minds. I had returned home from my practice to find him sprawled face down on the sitting-room floor. The bottle and needle were out on the table and my heart skipped several beats.

The next thing I knew I was beside him, turning his body over, trying to call his name but discovering that my voice had abandoned me. Holmes, another statistic? It was not until I checked his pulse and ascertained that he was indeed still alive that I remembered to breathe.

It was then that he made his promise. The promise never to touch the drug again, to be free of its power for the rest of his days. I truly believed that the close call he had had finally opened his eyes, that he would keep his word to me.

Which is why I cannot accept what I have come home too. And I am not just angry at him.

Have I failed as a friend and physician? Isn't there something more that I could have done, something I should have done to prevent the addiction reaching this point? I knew the dangers, knew it was wrong and yet I allowed it to continue despite my constant protests. I should have thrown every single one of those damned bottles onto the fire myself!

Where to go from here? Shall I simply wait until I come home and find that this time, I was too late? To see the man I respected and admired above all others fall to such a common vice? To watch my greatest friend destroy himself while I looked the other way? There must be something I can say, something I can do. I will not suffer his death a second time, I will not allow him to trade Moriarty for mere cocaine!

My thoughts are interrupted by a soft knock on the door. For a moment, I contemplate not answering, leaving him outside the door, alone.

But the moment passes, and I am furious with myself for considering it. He obviously needs to speak with me and I will not allow him to suffer this alone. My rage melts away.

I open the door, and step aside to allow him entrance, but he remains fixedly in the hall. He still will not meet my eyes. He reaches out one long arm and seizes my wrist, pressing several glass bottles into my hand.

"That is all of it," he says quietly. "No more."

"You have made that assertion before, Holmes," I reply gently. He finally raises his eyes to me and I see some strange and desperate emotion in his pale face. It is one that I have seen only once before, and wished never to again.

"No," he says, shaking his head. "This cannot continue Watson, and you have known it longer, much longer, than I. Take them away. Keep them to remind me of the idiocy that I-" He cuts off abruptly, turning away from me and clattering down the stairs. I stand there for a few remaining moments, enough to hear him slam both the sitting room door and the front door, ignoring Mrs. Hudson's calls after him.

I look down at the small bottles in my hand. Use them to remind him always of what he has done, or tried to do?

* * *

He does not return until after midnight, long after I have retired. But I am awoken in the early hours of the morning by the music of the Stradivarius, its notes drifting up from his room.

I know it is a Chopin piece, though which one it is I do not know. The notes that drift through the floorboards between us... It is impossible to describe. How can I transcribe the beauty and sadness of the sound? Each note that slips through the floorboards between us sobs the torment of the man beneath me, probably already suffering the symptoms of the loss of the drug, as he plays on alone long into the night.

I know that in the days and weeks to come that Holmes will be driven half mad by the need of the cocaine, that I will not always be on call to stop him, that nothing prevents him from simply purchasing more of the necessary tools to feed his habit.

Strangely, none of this worries me.

I arise from my bed and pull on my dressing gown, descend the stairs and softly rap on Holmes' door. The violin playing is abruptly cut off and within a few seconds the door is opened.

"Come and play the sitting room," I say, smiling. After a moment of consideration he returns the smile – is that a hint of gratitude?

Soon we are seated in our chairs before a fire that is nothing more than glowing embers. My old friend continues his mournful song as I sit back and listen with my eyes closed.

No. This time, there is no more need for worry.

* * *

**A/N**: For anyone who is wondering, Holmes is playing Chopin's Nocturne in C# minor on violin, a captivating and hauntingly beautiful piece of music.


	3. To Sleep

**To Sleep**

_O soft embalmer of the still midnight,  
Shutting, with careful fingers and benign,  
Our gloom-pleas'd eyes, embower'd from the light,  
Enshaded in forgetfulness divine:  
O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close  
In midst of this thine hymn my willing eyes,  
Or wait the "Amen," ere thy poppy throws  
Around my bed its lulling charities.  
Then save me, or the passed day will shine  
Upon my pillow, breeding many woes,--  
Save me from curious Conscience, that still lords  
Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;  
Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,  
And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul. _

_ -John Keats _

* * *

The nightmares have plagued them both throughout the years, and not without good reason.

For one there are the nightmares of war.

He has seen his friends blown to bits again and again, he wades knee deep through the blood and bodies of enemies and comrades, places untold numbers of useless bandages on mortal wounds simply to comfort the psyche of the dying. He has known the helplessness, the outrage, and the folly of war. The bullets that tried to take his life once are never too far from the reflection of his subconscious mind. They come often in the night, to finish the job they began on a battlefield in a continent on the other side of the world. His heart, his brain, his every limb has been pierced and the blood flows and the pain is so great as to not feel anything at all and he knows he will die and there is no orderly to rescue him and even if there was there would be nothing to carry but a corpse.

But as the years wear on, another figure muscles his way into the nightmares. Holmes looking absurd as he stands upon the battlefield (in a tweed suit of all things!) begins to appear and the dreams change. Now Holmes sometimes takes the bullets meant for him and he is forced to watch as his dearest friend falls face first into the dust, his familiar smile suddenly fading with the terrible realization of his own mortality as bloody red blossoms spring up upon his clothes. He falls among the bangs and shouts and screams, never to move again no matter how loudly Watson cries his name. Often it is Holmes who bears Watson upon his back off the battlefield, completely oblivious to the carnage around him. He merrily babbles on about bullet trajectories and rifling marks and what can be gathered if one would just _commit_ to the study of them, never mind those silly methods the Yard uses.

Ridiculous.

* * *

Down the silent stairs into another bedroom, this one haunted by a man who suffers his nightmares not from the terrors of war but from the trauma of childhood coupled with the knowledge of the capabilities of evil that lurk within the hearts of men trough his extensive involvement with the criminal mind. Childhood memories, images and impressions of countless cases of murder and dismemberment dance a macabre waltz with his imagination, twisting dreams into fiendish hellscapes.

It is not long before a benevolent doctor begins his performance upon this stage of torments as an anchor to cling to, a type of presence he has not had the privilege of having since his childhood. But the horrors sometimes are too great even for his overwhelming goodness and the doctor too is destroyed along with the great detective by the cunning of evil. Watson takes the place of a dead childhood friend, his face pale and bloated as he is dragged up the riverbank because a small boy named Sherlock failed to reach him in time. Or he becomes the victim in The Case, the case that caused him to devote his life to bringing justice to London and almost completely destroyed even his iron nerve. But the most terrible, frightening and intolerable of all is when Watson does not appear with a calming mind and healing hand as he lies broken and dying on a damp, disgusting dream alley completely alone. No matter how many times Holmes calls for him to (please, please, please) stop being silly and just help him, (no, his voice is _not _breaking...) Watson does not come.

It is only after the last that he tends to wake with a start, wiping what he knows to be a cold sweat from his cheeks but what feels suspiciously like tears.

* * *

Many times during their long association has one been woken out of fitful dreams, knowing that further sleep has slipped through their grasp yet again, and gone into the sitting room only to find the other already seated in a fireside armchair, eyes wide as fingers cradle a pipe or novel. Eyes meet and the understanding is there. Dawn slips in through the windows to see two figures curled up in their respective armchairs, calm, almost smiling faces reflecting blissful sleep.

But many more still, in the earlier days, were the nights upon which one would suffer their hells alone, to awake screaming from their sleep only to find that nothing but hard menacing shadows greeted them. Those were the worst nights of all, for both. While one paced, read by soothing gas light, scratched upon the violin or cried out in the midst of their dreams the other would lie awake, wondering all night whether something could or should be done out of the expense of wounded pride.

And back then pride always won.

Ironically it is Holmes, the "brain without a heart" that breaks first. He heard the man wake muttering names and curses, has heard the syncopated, limping pace above his head for the last hour. This is the third night passed thus and something must be done for both their sakes. He reaches for the violin but stops; the move seems far too obvious. Watson will know he has been heard, been keeping Holmes awake and the man will be mortified by it and despise himself for his "weakness." No, this requires some creativity.

Holmes moves into the sitting room and pounces on the post with sudden inspiration. Rifling through the papers for the note he received just this morning he seizes it, scans its contents once and promptly hurls it onto the fire. He then conjures all the bluster he possesses, charges loudly up the stairs and begins to hammer on the door to the doctor's room.

"Surely you must be ready by now!" he calls as the door is quickly opened by a bewildered and sleep-deprived Watson. Holmes barges into the middle of the room, promptly berates the doctor for being in his dressing gown and begins raiding his closet and dresser, throwing mismatched clothes at random onto the bed, babbling all the while.

"How could you have forgotten?" he demands, hurling a waistcoat from the closet and missing the bed by inches. "I told you this morning I wanted your help on a case tonight!"

"Holmes I am quite certain that you said nothing of the kind!" Watson exclaims, too overwhelmed by the man's overbearing presence to protest this latest affront.

"I didn't?" he asks lightly, throwing two left shoes (one brown, one black) beside the waistcoat. "Hmm. Must have forgotten. Well what are you doing standing around?" Holmes is already moving toward the door. "Ready yourself and be quick about it, a man's life may be at stake!"

A motley drama soon ensues, in which an absurdly simple stakeout chosen because of its inanity turns into a mad dash across the dockyards in the dead of night after the two jewel thieves featured so prominently in the papers of late. Holmes triumphantly drags the two handcuffed men to the local constable's feet only to get both himself and Watson hauled down to the Yard on suspicious behavior by the clearly novice recruit. After a thorough tongue lashing by the detective to the recruit and a silent, prideful and "dignified" acceptance of the apology issued by the sniggering inspector on duty, Holmes and Watson finally find themselves back at Baker Street in time to receive a good natured talking too by their lovely landlady. She cites all the terrible things that could have happened to them including the thousands of conditions they have previously arrived home in and scolds Holmes for tracking mud all over the foyer. They manage to escape up to their rooms only to be held up again by a delightful breakfast Mrs. Hudson brings up behind them.

For a few weeks there is no pacing from the room above Holmes' head and he smiles secretly to himself at his (of course) astounding success.

Merely one episode in their quest for a peaceful rest.

* * *

By far the most significant action in the battle against their private horrors comes at the hands of Watson.

Holmes has long since retired for the night while his friend and flat mate remains at the desk, composing a letter to an old friend from his college days. He is just finishing the note and planning to retire when he hears his name being called softly from Holmes' room. Watson approaches the door and gently pushes it open, only to immediately wish he had done nothing of the kind.

It is a dreaming Holmes that has called to him, one that, by the shaking and thrashing that he is exhibiting is most certainly a dreaming Holmes in the grips of pain. Watson knows that he should simply close the door, retire to his own room and lie awake all night wishing he could have done something, as has become routine. But seeing his friend in such pain, he remembers that he is a doctor first and a doctor's goal is to alleviate pain and suffering. He moves quietly into the room and lays one cool hand upon Holmes' burning forehead.

"It's alright," he whispers softly. "Don't worry, it's alright."

Holmes awakes with a start as Watson immediately withdraws his hand. He wide eyes dart around the room for a brief moment before finally settling upon the image of Watson.

"What took you so long?" he asks accusingly.

"I came as soon as I heard you," Watson replied.

Watson watches the realization dawn on Holmes' face that this is no longer a dream and promptly begins to withdraw from the room, murmuring a hasty goodnight before closing the door behind him.

He almost misses the barely audible "Thank you."

* * *

The nightmares remain. They always will. Their forms will morph and trade faces more often than sea, but the same terror, the same helplessness will always remain.

The nightmares remain. The terrible loneliness after they have gone does not.

* * *

**A/N: **The document manager will, frustratingly enough, not allow me to indent the sonnet, which is why it is in its improper form here. I apologize to any and all English majors.


	4. On the Banks of a Rocky Stream

_BEHOLD an emblem of our human mind  
Crowded with thoughts that need a settled home,  
Yet, like to eddying balls of foam  
Within this whirlpool, they each other chase  
Round and round, and neither find  
An outlet nor a resting-place!  
Stranger, if such disquietude be thine,  
Fall on thy knees and sue for help divine._

_-William Wordsworth_

* * *

I utterly despise clutter within my mind.

I have room for the entire history of the criminal world of London since 1850, knowledge of soil samples, finger prints, cigar ashes, I know what the slightest smudge of mud upon a suspect's boot might mean, and the only perfect map of every London street, complete with points of interest, is pasted to the ceiling of my brain where I make look at it wherever and whenever I wish. I can speak several foreign tongues with fluency in French, Italian, German and Russian. I have room for chemistry, mathematics, basic anatomy and no small amount of self defense maneuvers which have gotten me out of more than one tight spot in the few years of my most singular career. The tools of my trade.

There is room for other disciplines as well, primarily literature, modern scientific advances and a smattering of philosophy, though I consider the last to be nothing more that senseless questions with no practical use other than to confuse the listener. Completely useless, it serves only as an interesting study.

For music of course I have space aplenty. Handel, Beethoven, Vivaldi, Bach, Chopin, even Mozart, the ingenuity of the "Table Music" more than compensating for his lack of originality. Of course I have no second player for the duets, nor do I desire one. I do believe that music has much more space than it ought, but cannot bring myself to willingly forget a single solo or concerto, nor do I think the music would allow me to. The notes have a strangely immortal quality.

But I digress. A multitude of other studies are also permitted to swirl about in my mind, a space which I claim to keep organized but is even more of an unruly jumble of disarray as our rooms in Baker Street when I have decided to reorganize my case files and Watson is tired of cleaning up the mess.

With all these thoughts, all the clutter, it is no wonder my brain desires to constantly be stimulated. Under the effects of an interesting case or the influence of the cocaine the thoughts instantly fall into line, bringing forth only what I require at a specific moment in time. But when a case is unavailable and the cocaine is undesirable the thoughts will come muddling back. And this is why I have refused to move from my chair for the last several hours and stare miserably at the door.

I have conquered the need for sleep, food and proper shelter for extended periods of time, the most basic of human necessities. And this is why I find it so exceedingly frustrating when I cannot control the one thing in the world that I should have complete control over, my own mind. What am I supposed to do but sit and smoke while transcribing compositions into new keys and consume copious amounts of coffee or tea? Perhaps if I do not move my physical body, my mind will be calmed and I can have a moment of silence without my thoughts running in seventeen different directions at once.

This hypothesis does not tend to work but by the time I realize this I don't care. Would it be so difficult for a single person in this miserable city to come through the door and hand an interesting case?

And why cannot I deduce that man's motivations?!

Even I know that in this mood I am completely intolerable. I have snapped at my flat mate twice in the last hour, both for rattling his teacup too loudly. I have transcribed Brahms' Sonata No. 1 from G major into D minor and slowed the tempo. I have not eaten all day despite a few of his physician opinions and I've filled this room with so much smoke that I can feel the thinness of the air.

Why then does he not just leave?

He remains in the room, quietly reading as if this is a night like any other, as if I have not twice seen him cringe at my playing or quietly open a window to let out the smoke. He has dared to speak to three times only to be snapped at once and ignored once and once telling him to stop rustling the pages so loud, can't you see I'm trying to think?!

But there he sits, peaceful as anything, not listening to me when I tell him without telling him to go away for his own sake.

I take precious moments away from glaring at the still closed door to try and observe him without appearing to. He sits with a silly sentimentalist novel in his hands, scanning it with intense interest. He is doing nothing he cannot do in his own room! Why does he – ha! there it is, a repressed cough, clearly from all the smoke - why does he stay here and suffer this?

He has not moved for far too long. Enough is enough.

"Watson you have been reading the same page for the last twelve minutes!" I exclaim suddenly and harshly. He patiently turns the leaves of his volume without looking up at me, and I resume leering darkly at the door, satisfied that my unruly outburst has brought forth at least some reaction.

"You know that it is impolite to stare Holmes." Is that a _chuckle _in his voice?

I whip my head back around to look at him, but he has already resumed staring at the pages of that book. A smile plays about his lips and my suspicions are confirmed. He is mocking me!

I refuse to stand for this.

I spring up for my chair, immediately crossing the room and reaching for my hat and coat.

"Where are you off to Holmes?" he asks, sounding irritatingly unsurprised.

"Out!" I bark back, heading for the door.

"Mind the weather," he calls as a slam the door shut. He does not even turn around!

Bah.

* * *

It is only three hours later as I am in the middle of halting an East End mugging that I notice my depression has lifted completely. I nearly forget to dodge a punch aimed at my head as I realize perhaps Watson knew what he was doing the whole time.

* * *

It has been almost a month and a half since last I felt this terrible and Watson is nowhere to be found, no doubt called away on some mission of mercy. The knowledge does me no good as I sit here smoking pipe after pipe, once again unwilling to move, curled into a tight ball on the sofa.

I feel as if I am in the blackest of black moods, a situation I have not been in for quite some time. Surely it cannot be because Watson has been called away. I suffered through many a day without his presence and I shall certainly continue to do so after we have parted ways.

And there is that strange feeling again as I consider the day when the doctor finally becomes exhausted with my insufferable self and leaves Baker Street, never to return. I do not fully understand it, which is infinitely maddening, but I do not like it.

I am above such maudlin nonsense.

I do not know how long I have been here, sitting and smoking and staring at the fire, the wall and out the windows, but my gaze most often returning to that impenetrable door. I do know that when Watson finally decides to take it upon himself to return that he is greeted by a cloud of smoke that literally billows out of the room, sending him into a coughing fit and probably tearing up his eyes. I follow his shadow through the smoke as he struggles to reach the window and pry it open.

"Holmes?" he says uncertainly into that wispy mire, his eyes blinded from the smoke. I make some small, disgruntled sound of recognition. He does not reply and instead begins to fan some of the smoke out the window with a sheaf of papers from the desk, after which he sits down at the desk and begins to compose something or other.

Why does he not simply sit by the fire where I can see him?

Within twenty minutes Watson has completed whatever it is he was writing and assumed his usual place by the fire. This time I do not intend for him to catch me glaring in his direction.

...He is turning those pages irritatingly slowly again. I know perfectly well that he can read two pages at an average of roughly 35 seconds each and as such it stands that it would take the man at a rate of approximately once every minute and ten seconds. He has taken no less than four minutes to turn the last three pages and I believe it is taking him longer and longer to read each page.

I shall not fall for this tactic again!

But even as I glare I feel a smirk flit across my face. My mood is already less dark than it had been an hour ago, and the only thing that has changed between then and now is the length of the shadows on the wall and Watson's presence, neither of which have anything to do with the matter at all.

"Holmes, I have told you before that it is impolite to stare."

...I am _not _smiling!

..._c'est ridicule!_


	5. The Bracelet: To Julia

**A/N: **There is some mild violent imagery in two scenes of this story.

_

* * *

WHY I tie about thy wrist,  
Julia, this silken twist;  
For what other reason is 't  
But to show thee how, in part,  
Thou my pretty captive art?  
But thy bond-slave is my heart:  
'Tis but silk that bindeth thee,  
Knap the thread and thou art free;  
But 'tis otherwise with me:  
—I am bound and fast bound, so  
That from thee I cannot go;  
If I could, I would not so._

_- Robert Herrick  
_

* * *

I think her case is... was, will be?

Her case will not be forgotten easily. The expression on my friend's face seems to be his typical passive mask as he stares down at the two bodies. Lestrade claps Holmes on the shoulder and I see him visibly recoil. Does the inspector not see the look in his eyes?

"Nothing you could have done" he says. "Girl was dead from the moment the man noticed her. We've encountered his type before." Lestrade shakes his head. "Terrible shame."

Holmes remains silent, staring at the girl – young woman – for a few more moments before stalking away from the scene and slamming the door shut. I begin to follow but before I leave I turn, torment burning in my soul, to gaze upon her face once more.

Her straight red hair plays over her pale face, the naivety of those eyes that so struck me the first time she appeared, pleading for help with nowhere else to turn, has been completely extinguished. Those lovely, blues eyes are wide with shock and horror. I cannot bring myself to look at her neck. The scarf that Holmes ripped from her throat with his bare hands has left a horrific mark upon the virgin white skin. Her arm lies outstretched from her body, torn fingers with broken nails lying in a pool of _his_ blood. The blood is already seeping into the pale green dress upon her person, a dress I remember well.

I refuse to look at him, even to spit upon him.

If he had not killed himself, Holmes or I would have been happy to oblige him.

I know that she is our greatest failure. I do not need the power of premonition to look down the long path of the years ahead to know that I will lie awake many a night, trying to hide from the gaze of her wide, wondering eyes. She will haunt my dreams and nightmares. She will not leave.

She is our greatest failure.

This poor, pretty, innocent seraph masquerading as a maid on the East End.

An angel forcibly torn from heaven cannot survive in hell.

Our failure.

Julia.

* * *

She arrived early one drowsy Thursday afternoon, resplendent in pale green. The dress was plain but it had a certain elegance upon its figure, a lovely young woman of about twenty. It was April and spring was just creeping out of the dismal grey of winter. Her colourful person seemed a harbinger of the lovely weeks to come. The blue eyes were what one noticed the most, eyes that hid no dark secrets behind them.

"Mr. Holmes?" her voice was light and pleasant but had an unnatural tone that I could not place at the time and it shook with slight nervousness.

Holmes arose from his chair to greet her and introduce us. I fully expected him to tell what she did for a living, where she lived and what her problem was. To my slight surprise the man did nothing of the kind and instead conducted her to the couch in a cordial manner and resumed his place in the chair.

I did not know at the time that he had deduced almost all of the aforementioned pieces of information, but did not want to upset the girl anymore than she already was.

"I-I don't know who else to turn too," she blurted out suddenly. "I have to work late again and I'm so worried and the constable just laughed at me and wanted to know what he was supposed to do about it!"

Sherlock Holmes looked at her intently and sat back.

"Please my dear," he said, softening his usual business tone just slightly. "Collect yourself and speak your case."

She took a deep breath to steady her nerves.

"My name is Julia Martin," she began. "I work down at a public-house – _The Prospect of Whitby _– as a maid only!" she declared, seeing our expressions at the mention of the infamous pub. "Last week I was just fixin' to go home when a man handed me this note."

It was then I realized what was so unnatural about her voice. She was trying desperately to cover the accent that marked her so distinctly as member of the lower classes of our fair city.

She continued her story, answering Holmes' questions when they were posed. No, she did not see the man's face when he handed her the note. Yes, she had received more notes, each specifically addressed to her and steadily becoming more and more insinuating and threatening. No, she never knew who sent them. After the first, the notes were left on the bar, under tables, all places where she could not miss them. No, she had not noticed a man coming in regularly every evening. The place was always very crowded. Then she had come home from work one early morning to find the lock on her room had been smashed. Her room had been carefully picked over, the thief only taking some small trinkets that had little monetary value but great personal value, among them an embroidered lace handkerchief that belonged to her grandmother. She knew she had been followed home but didn't know by whom. When she approached a constable, telling him that her rooms has been ransacked and she was being followed by a strange man he simply laughed at her.

As he listened to her story I saw my friends eyes grow darker and darker, his face more iron set.

"I-I have one of the notes here," she said, handing him a small slip of greasy paper. "That's the third one he sent... I found it last Tuesday when I was cleaning the bar."

"Where are the rest?" Holmes asked.

"I threw them away." He suddenly glared at her harshly.

"Why would you do that?" he asked with an edge to his voice.

"I'm sorry! They... I... I just didn't want to look at them anymore." The young lady's eyes became even more fearful and she started to chew her bottom lip. Holmes didn't reply to her, his eyes already buried in the note, searching for the least hidden meaning. The girl continued staring at him imploringly and he continued to ignore her until she couldn't stand it anymore.

"Please Mr. Holmes, you must help me!" she cried suddenly. "I'm not a rich girl but I'm an honest worker I am and-" Her voice slipping into her usual dialect in her distress, Holmes finally glanced at her and calmly raised a hand to silence her outburst.

"Have no fear Miss Martin," he said after she had calmed herself. "I intend to see your case out to its conclusion, we shall discuss payment then. In the meantime you have nothing to fear. Go back to your room, go to work. Do not act out of your normal routine and all shall be well." It was as if the light of heaven filled her face when she smiled.

"Oh thank you Mr. Holmes! I won't worry no more, thank you!" Julia removed herself from the room, thanking both Holmes and myself profusely before wishing us 'G'bye' as she exited the flat. We heard the girl practically skip down the stairs and I turned back to Holmes who was once again closely examining that greasy slip of paper. Within five minutes he turned toward me, eyes bright with the thrill of the case.

"He's a low, sniveling man, residing somewhere in the East End, probably not far from her room or place of employment." Holmes stated. "But not an uneducated one, see the elegance of his 'g's? It was written in great haste with a cheap black pen, on a slip of paper torn from a poster advertising an engagement at the Royal Albert Hall. This note wasn't planned and this is the third she has received. A low man, following her and watching from afar on an impulse. Daring enough to break into her room in the dead of night but no so that he would attempt to accost her by day.

"Well we cannot let the poor girl wander the East End at night!" I exclaimed.

"Of course not," he replied simply. "But we have several hours before that eventuality. In the meantime-"

Holmes vanished into his room and a solicitor emerged several minutes later, hurrying across the room and out the door.

"I am off Watson!' he called, already halfway down the stairs.

* * *

I saw little of Holmes in the ensuing days. He would be out all night, sleep for some hours in the morning and be off again in the afternoon while I had my practice to attend to during the day.

Julia, however, I saw a great deal of. Instead of sending word by post or telegram, Holmes had instructed her to drop off any more notes directly. She would drop off these items on her way to work, just after I had returned from my practice for the evening. Seeing her beautiful, smiling form after a long day made me wish I was a younger man in a way I hadn't known since Mary passed and I felt no small amount of guilt over that fact.

One day, three days after she had first appeared before us she arrived later than usual. Seeing dusk quickly settling upon the London streets and her heightened sense of nervousness I offered to escort her to _The Prospect_. Smiling gratefully, she accepted.

It was a delightfully cool spring evening. When not possessed by fear or anticipation, Julia was an open, interesting woman, smiling and bustling with lively energy as she discussed her family, her regular customers and her hopes for the future. She was surprisingly well read; her father had been an avid collector of books before he died several years ago, leaving a wife and three children to fend for themselves.

"Once I save up enough I'm going to move out of that horrid room and look for a decent job in a bakery," she said as she smiled up at the evening sky. "Then I'll have enough to start sending money back home. Abigail, my little sister, she wants to come to London soon but I won't have it until I can show her a flat to be proud of."

We continued chatting until we reached _The Prospect._ A man was already collapsed against the wall next to the door, a rowdy song was being sung inside the murky, grimy windows and I had serious doubts about leaving the poor girl there alone, when suddenly the man supposedly collapsed against the wall spoke.

"Fancy seeing you here, Doctor." His face turned towards me and my eyes met a crooked but familiar grin.

"Evenin' Jack," said Julia with a wink. "Thank you Doctor, I'll be fine from here." I bade her goodnight and she entered the building, the shouts getting noticeably louder at her entrance.

"Why doesn't she simply go in the side door?" I asked Holmes, who had resumed his loafing position against the wall.

"Owner makes her," he replied laconically, with some amount of hardness in his voice. "Tells her the sight of a pretty girl makes the men spend their money more freely." I made a small sound of disgust at the baseness of human nature and Holmes chuckled.

"Off to change the preconceptions of the human race?" he asked sarcastically. I shrugged in frustration and told Holmes to keep an eye on her.

"She's too good for this place," I muttered, turning toward home. A voice behind spoke softly.

"I know."

* * *

It was two days later and I sat at the desk writing when Holmes burst in.

"The revolver Watson!" he cried, shedding his disguise all over the floor as he moved through the room. My heart rapidly sinking, I immediately grabbed my revolver from the desk drawer and went to don my hat and overcoat.

A hansom was waiting for us in the street. Holmes shouted the address and we clattered off toward the less reputable areas of London.

"What is it Holmes?" I asked as he sat beside me, face emotionless and grey. "What happened to the girl?"

"Bad business Watson," he murmured through clenched teeth. "I thought it would be simple enough but I underestimated – he's a dangerous man Watson! Now... now..." He said no more for the short ride and soon the cab pulled up in front of _The Prospect of Whitby_. Holmes tumbled out of the hansom and into the building with me close at his heels. I entered in time to see Holmes turn away from the bartender in rage and frustration and almost slam into me on his way back out the door. Instead he gripped me by the arm and half dragged me out of the public-house in his dash from the hovel.

Back in the hansom, Holmes cried another address at the cabbie and we charged off in a new direction.

As we approached the miserable building which I could only assume to be Julia's place of residence Holmes jumped from the cab before it had stopped, sprinting toward the door and shouting at two men loitering on the sidewalk. The men followed me and Holmes into the building and up two flights of stairs that ended in a short hallway with doors on both sides. Holmes tried the closest door on the right and finding it locked promptly kicked it in and headed into the room.

The noise that caught in his throat as he entered could only be described as a strangled cry of anguish. I fought down both a shout and the desire to cover my eyes.

Holmes sank to his knees beside her, forcibly ripping the too-tight silken scarf from her throat. I could tell that she was already gone, it was too late, just leave the poor girl be but it was impossible to articulate this to him. The dead man lying beside her reached his repulsive hands toward her, a gun lying beside fingers that were already soaked in a pool of blood.

It was then that Holmes realized it was no use. Julia's smile was gone and would not grace these rooms again.

The two men, whom I recognize to be Lestrade and Constable Daniels approached the two bodies, conferring softly with each other. _Murder - suicide. _

It is over. We have failed.

* * *

I find Holmes outside, staring in the direction of the street without seeing it, lost in thought. Gently I place my hand on his shoulder, easier than Lestrades gruff manner but he shuns away. I attempt the motion again and this time I am not cast off.

Walking in silence, we somberly make our way back to Baker Street. I have entered these rooms only once before in such a grip of melancholy.

This is not merely a case in which Holmes lost a client. It had happened a handful of times before, both with me working alongside him and Holmes working alone. She had come to Holmes, to us, asking for protection from a man who wished her evil. The dilemma had been drastically underestimated and the girl had been left to fend for herself. We are no better than the constable who laughed at her.

We sit by the fire, sipping tea that I do not remember Mrs. Hudson bringing us, both still unwilling to speak. I do not know the full details of the case and I do not think I wish too. I do not even look at my friend because I do not know what I will see in his face.

I chance a glance and wish I had not. He stares at the fire, trembling with rage. His face is once again a mask, making the emotion in only his eyes even more terrifying, like a demon imprisoned within a statue. I do not know what to do. This is a pain that I am not qualified to heal.

But in time an idea comes to me. As I cross the room he turns toward me and I am shocked by how like a lost child he looks. Then he turns away.

"She was a client..." he begins, but then drifts off. Even now he is willing to pull that seemingly perfect mask over his own eyes.

* * *

Watson leaves my field of vision for a moment and I am alone again.

The fact that I see no reproach in his eyes, no blame for the girl's murder, no hardness toward me in his manner is even more damning than had he shouted at me. All that is there in his face is sadness over the loss of the girl and sympathy, _sympathy _for me! There is escape in anger!

I do not admire the female sex as a whole, but individually I can appreciate their better qualities. Whenever a woman has appeared at the center of my various little problems I have always, always done my best to protect...

When the violin and bow are pressed into my hands I do not even recognize them for what they are.

I look up at him, struggling to read his thoughts in his face and for once, failing utterly.

"Play," he says simply. "For both of us. Please."

After a long moment I lift the violin to my shoulder and lightly drag the bow across the strings.

It is the _Chaconne_. It is rudimentary and crude and nothing like what the music should sound like but I do not, cannot play anything else. The melodies and strings chase themselves into a whirl of that unknowable darkness of the human soul that cannot be communicated with mere words. The music escapes my knowledge, drifting off into strange and even beautiful realms that I did not know I could play. Watson is gazing at me again and I wish that he would not because I cannot help but try and read those emotions and what if I am wrong? I shut my eyes against the visual sensory input but now I am left alone with my thoughts and I am... worried about what I will find there.

I do not think that sleep will come for either of us tonight, but the illogical feeling that I would wake to see blue eyes, once innocent now turned hard and accusatory is melting away. I will not make this mistake again and as this realization comes to me and the music continues I do not feel the fury of a wronged soul. I feel a soul released from desire and pain and I swear that this shall not happen again.

And I beg forgiveness without the right to.

Never again.

I am so sorry.

Julia.

* * *

**A/N: **There are several notes here, so please bear with me.

I had some difficulty writing this story concerning the subject matter and characterization, especially Holmes, and so any feedback in this department will be greatly appreciated.

_The Prospect of Whitby _is a real and still operating pub in London located at 57 Wrapping Wall in Wrapping. It has a less-than-decent history and seemed a fitting location for Julia to work at.

Finally, the _Chaconne _that Holmes refers to is perhaps the most famous solo violin piece written by Bach as the finale of his _Partita for Violin in D minor_. I do not intend for Holmes to play it perfectly here or even all that well. It is one of the most difficult pieces for solo violin in existence, one violinist must sound like two. As for Holmes, I simply could not hear him playing anything else but the _Chaconne_ as I was writing it.


	6. Song: Go and Catch a Falling Star, Vr1

_Go and catch a falling star_

_Get with child a mandrake root_

_Tell me where all the past years are _

_Or who cleft the devil's foot_

_Teach me to hear mermaids singing_

_Or to keep off envy's stinging,_

_And find_

_What wind_

_Serves to advance an honest mind_

_-John Donne _

_

* * *

It is impossible. _The great Sherlock Holmes knows this and repeats the desperate mantra under his breath as he sprints through the mud and shields his eyes against the driving rain.

_It is impossible it is impossible it is impossible_

He calls a name over the screaming wind but of course there is no reply but a clap of thunder. Why should there be?

_It is impossible._

That he had been spotted? No. That the gang had chosen this very night to meet in the suspect's farmhouse? No. That his flat mate had failed to meet him at the agreed upon place? That he was now running for his life against four men upon spirited horses? That Watson had abandoned him? No, no and no. He had been spotted because he had been too foolish and too eager to obtain the necessary evidence to even consider the possibility of a lookout. That the gang had chosen this very night to meet there was a simple matter of bad luck and coincidence. His flat mate had failed to meet him because this torrential downpour had probably been too much for his still-healing injuries and he had sought shelter, perhaps back at the inn. He was running for his life because counterfeiters do not like anyone knowing their business and Watson had abandoned him because the man was simply looking out for his own self interest. There was nothing illogical about any of that. Sherlock Holmes nearly slips and falls into a particularly large puddle of mud and considers that this is perhaps not the best time to try and reason away his thoughts. For several more moments he concentrates on mere survival, but his brain has always had the tendency to never shut itself off.

But this feeling, this emotion was impossible! The hurt, the ache, the stabbed and bleeding open wound of betrayal that overrode the fear even as he ran across the dark deserted moor with hoof beats beating down closer upon him every moment, it was impossible! Sherlock Holmes does not trust. He does not care about his fellow man beyond their involvement in a particularly interesting case. He does not befriend. The emotions that would come along with any of these scenarios would simply cloud his brain, leaving less room for the necessary tools of his craft. Watson was merely a useful man to have around when he needed a second on a case. He hadn't really believed that Watson would ever sacrifice his own needs to aid him in this instance. Never... So why this ache? Why this pain?

It is impossible, impossible, impossible.

The hoof beats of those horses grow ever louder, drumming out his early and inglorious march to the gallows over the wind and rain. His last hope that the darkness would hide him is shattered in a brilliant flash of lightning as it streaks across the moor. He knows he has been spotted. There are shouts of recognition and realization behind him. Having heard reports from two separate rifles, he knows that at least two of them are armed. There is another bang as a bullet careens past his head, missing by inches. Too close. Their aim was much better than he had anticipated. No more time.

Either the guns or the horses. There is no escape. The illustrious career will end before it has even truly begun and his brain and body will remain broken upon this miserable stretch of English moor for all time. Criminals will run rampant in the London streets and the miserable group of imbeciles that call themselves Scotland Yard will be left to their own limited devices.

So much for those few months of Baker Street rent.

Suddenly there is the sound of one of the rifles being discharged. This one comes closer, grazing the upper right arm of its mark, tearing through the thin layers of sopping wet clothing and drawing blood. He clutches this arm against the pain, knowing he is merely attempting to stave off the inevitable. But the wound is followed by the sound of another gun being fired, and Sherlock Holmes knows without a doubt that this has come from a revolver.

He begins to hope against hope as a warm emotion tentatively begins to coarse through him. But is this not too, impossible?

There are cries of confusion from behind him, only three distinct voices now. He does not let up and continues to put distance between himself and his distracted pursuers. Another shot rings out – a horse screams and collapses. A cry of pain and a rifle shot somewhere into the darkness is quickly followed by another revolver shot and the second pleasantly sickening sound of something crashing into the mud. A horse gallops away toward the direction of the town and Sherlock Holmes stops running. That was four of them and as he is standing still and no bullets are aiming for his skull, he can safely assume that the one remaining rider is the fifth, his mysterious rescuer. Soft, slow hoof beats come toward him and a shaking voice whispers.

"Holmes?"

Breathing a sigh of relief that surprises himself, he hails a reply and swings onto the horse behind his flat mate, ignoring the stinging pain of his injury.

"Get us out of here Watson," he mutters gruffly and the other man complies. He is glad for the darkness, that Watson cannot see his face, for the wind that he cannot hear his labored breathing and for the battering rain that he cannot feel his hands shaking. If the other man does notice these poorly hidden features he mercifully does not acknowledge them.

"I am sorry Holmes," he says instead. "Are you alright?" Sherlock Holmes insists that he is fine and demands to know why Watson failed to meet him at the edge of town as was decided earlier in the night.

"You were gone over an hour and twenty minutes," he replies simply. "After an hour you told me that I was not to remain in the vicinity under any circumstances."

Bah. Of course. How could he have forgotten? But then he also demands to know where Watson could possibly have gotten to in order to reappear so damned dramatically.

'The other side of the farmhouse. I arrived just in time to see you be chased off by four men on horseback. I followed as fast as I could... Thank God I was not too late!"

There is only a sound of annoyance from the man behind him. There is no word of thanks, no display of gratitude. Merely a shrug of the shoulders and the issue is forgotten. Holmes knows that when they arrive back at their rooms, Watson will notice he has been shot and make a completely unnecessary fuss and he will protest against it and the whole thing will end in his begrudging acceptance of a few sutures and a bandage.

When did this routine become such a common occurrence that he can predict exactly what will happen?

Luckily in a few moments all of this is forgotten and the greatest mind in London is busy at work deciding how best to broach the subject of three bodies upon the moor to the local authorities and presenting the evidence that will bring about the arrests. The rest of the ride continues in silence as the doctor directs the horse back toward town.

* * *

It is not until his wound has been looked at and bandaged (as predicted) and the necessary authorities have been dealt with and papers filed and he is alone in his rented room does he think to attribute the shaking of Watson's hands and the haunted, guilty expression on his face to more than just a doctor's concern for a patient or even some silly worry for himself as a fr – flat mate.

Would the doctor feel so guilty over killing at least two armed and dangerous men? Sherlock Holmes groans. Of course he would. The man was too ridiculously sentimental for his own good. Well, nothing could be done for it now. The men were dead and surely Watson would realize that the only reasonable thing to have done in the situation would be to shoot to kill. Wouldn't he?

Sherlock Holmes lies awake all night, pretending that he does not hear the constant pacing in the room next to him, nor feel the pangs of guilt over it or the desire to perhaps discuss the nights events with the man in a light that portrayed him as the rescuer that he was, not the murderer he undoubtedly believed himself to be. That last one was right out. Watson was far too prideful to acknowledge that the men's deaths were preying so heavily upon his mind. And why should all of this be bothering him in any case?

All of this is, quite simply, impossible.

_It is impossible, impossible, impossible. _

...or is it merely _improbable?_

* * *

A week later, Watson arrives back at their rooms well after midnight exhausted but relieved to know that the poor little girl he had been tending to will grow up to be healthy and happy woman. About to head up to his room for the night, he notices Holmes lying on the sofa in the sitting room, asleep, though he was certain that the man had been in bed before he left. After draping a blanket over him, Watson continues toward his room, but not before hearing the detective roll over and mutter something about catching a falling star and knowing where the past years are.


	7. Invocation to Youth

_Come then, as ever, like the wind at morning!_

_Joyous, O Youth, in the agèd world renew_

_Freshness to feel the eternities around it,_

_Rain, stars and clouds, light and the sacred dew._

_The strong sun shines above thee:_

_That strength, that radiance bring!_

_If Winter come to Winter,_

_When shall men hope for Spring?_

_-Laurence Binyon  
_

* * *

I am but five and twenty and already I have seen too much.

I drag a leg behind me and an arm hangs useless at my side in testament to what I have seen, choked in the dust and blood of battles on foreign soil. I must admit that the moment my eyes caught the sight of English soil once again I nearly wept.

I am a trained physician and should be spending my days healing others, not wasting away upon the charity of the government. Yet how can I go back into practice when I cannot walk two miles nor carry anything as heavy as a common doctor's bag?

Something must be done, for I cannot remain here any longer. London and its luxuries are an inhospitable place for a doctor who cannot heal, nor will she deign herself to accommodate a man who has fought and lost much for her mother England.

I sit here, contemplating which avenue to walk down for perhaps the rest of my days. Surely I could never be happy as some country doctor, living quietly among the humming bees and the gusts of wind. I cannot tolerate so much silence. Not after the bustle of London, not after the war.

But what is left for me here? All the lodgings that I can afford are in the undesirable places of the city. Am I then to spend the rest of my days becoming lost in the cups of some public-house like so many others? The government shall not keep me on its charity forever and it shall become necessary for me to enter into some sort of occupation, though if this arm and this leg do not heal soon I cannot see what profession I could take up. What employer would have a cripple?

I suppose I could seek someone to room with, but I know that this will only be a temporary solution to the problem. Yet in comparison to making a more permanent decision it is certainly the best alternative provided to me.

And the fragile workings of my mind are shattered by a tap upon my shoulder.

I turn and study the face for a brief second, waiting for all the swimming, disconnected and unrecognizable features to melt together into something in my memory.

Ah, Stamford!

Memories from the life before Afghanistan come flooding back as I greet him warmly, memories not so much of the man before me, for he had been something less than an acquaintance at St. Bart's, but memories of the friends, the seemingly endless, limitless life that once stretched out before me. Before my limbs were broken and I fell upon the charity of the state.

Eagerly I ask him to dine with me and he assents. As we ride toward the Holborn he asks me what I have been doing with myself, seeing my appearance so changed.

The whole tale pours forth, cruelest and most gory sections omitted. Yet even in this abridged telling I see Stamford's face pale slightly, the eyes widen with shock and sympathy.

"Poor devil," he says as he reassuringly pats me upon my uninjured shoulder. "What are you up to now?"

I briefly consider describing my thoughts up to the moment he hailed me but instead I simply smile. No need to give the man cause to worry any more than I have.

"Looking for lodgings," I reply, adding in a bit about comfortable rooms at a decent price.

Stamford tilts his head thoughtfully at me over the rim of his glass.

"Strange," he says after taking a sip. "You are the second man today that has used that expression on me."

He proceeds to tell me of a fellow working in the chemical laboratory at St. Bart's, one Sherlock Holmes, a man who sought someone to "go halves" with him on some rooms.

At first enthralled with the new idea, I insist we go immediately to meet the man. Yet as we head toward this objective my enthusiasm begins to wane. Despite Stamford's half hearted protests to the contrary, I cannot help but believe that this Holmes character is some ill-tempered eccentric, perhaps more insane... did he just say the man _beats_ the cadavers? Baffled as to what this man could possibly be studying and doubtful as to the soundness of his mind I am about to call the whole thing off. I open my mouth to tell him this –

"I've found it! I've found it!"

A very tall, lean man is now running toward us, bearing a test tube in one hand and an expression of joy his face. He murmurs something about precipitated hemoglobin but his words are drowned out by Stamford's introduction.

"Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

Of all things it is, absurdly, his hands that I notice first. The fingers are long, fine and delicate. They hands of a pianist, of a musician and a scholar. Yet these hands are stained all over with chemicals and covered in bits of sticking plaster. They are an anomaly.

He baffles me with his next statement, declaring that I had been in Afghanistan when I know there is no way he could possibly have known this. Yet he smiles and chuckles at my bafflement, then turns to the matter of his chemicals, babbling on about crime and serving only to add to my confusion. As he continues his ruminations I feel my previous apprehensions fading in light of the man's fantastic energy.

It is the eyes I notice now, grey and glittering. They gleam with enthusiasm and the thrill of his discovery. I have just admitted my shaken nerves to the man, something I never intended to reveal to a closest friend, if I had one, and certainly not to this strange man with whom I may or may not have –

Apparently I have also just agreed to see the rooms at noon tomorrow. Curious.

He seizes my hand in a firm handshake and already I know that I will agree to the arrangement.

Who knows? Perhaps a bit of his unflagging energy will reignite my own waning soul.

I clasp a strangers hand and smile.

I am but five and twenty, and I feel a new beginning in the air.


	8. Prospice

_Fear death?--to feel the fog in my throat,  
The mist in my face,  
When the snows begin, and the blasts denote  
I am nearing the place,  
The power of the night, the press of the storm,  
The post of the foe;  
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form;  
Yet the strong man must go:  
For the journey is done and the summit attained,  
And the barriers fall,  
Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained,  
The reward of it all.  
I was ever a fighter, so--one fight more,  
The best and the last!  
I would hate that Death bandaged my eyes, and forbore,  
And made me creep past.  
No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers,  
The heroes of old,  
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears  
Of pain, darkness and cold.  
For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave.  
The black minute's at end,  
And the elements' rage, the fiend voices that rave,  
Shall dwindle, shall blend,  
Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain.  
Then a light, then thy breat,  
O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,  
And with God be the rest!_

_-Robert Browning  
_

* * *

It is a simple thing, to send him away.

A simple thing to watch his retreating back, to smile and raise my arm in goodbye as he turns to see what he does not know is his last look upon me.

His fate to live, my fate to die.

I am not afraid of the man whom I know is approaching me in my seeming vulnerability, alone and undefended upon this mountain path. But perhaps he already knows. I am sure he does. He knows he will see no fear in my eyes or my soul.

I have come far in my quest to destroy the greatest threat to London in my generation and possibly for many to come. I will see it through to the end, and if the end is to occur in the next few minutes upon this spit of land between cliff and falls then so be it. The war will be won and he will be destroyed. This should be enough, I should be glad that my career may very well end here and now, as I take the criminal mastermind down to the depths with me.

But I am not. There is no glory in this.

I know Moriarty is slowly ascending the path from the opposite side. Hope flies from one side, and Death enters another. I know this empty feeling in my soul is because I have seen my only friend turn his back and I did not say goodbye as it should have been said. This will be easier. Easier for me, easier for him.

I will not have him caught in the crossfire of what is about to happen for anything. Not for the world, not for my own life. And indeed I do hear footsteps up the path. I know he will appear soon and I remove the pen and paper from my pocket. I smile bitterly as I stare upon its blank white expanse; it was a surface upon which I hoped never to write. I have kept it on my person since Moriarty appeared in my sitting room, knowing I would need it when the moment came.

It is a simple letter that I write, concerning practical matters and leaving thousands of questions unanswered, both mine and his.

As I write I remember our first meeting in that chemistry laboratory so long ago. I recall our many years in the shared rooms at Baker Street, the authority and intelligence I saw in those blue eyes on more than one occasion, the depth of loyalty so deep within that solitary soul that I was often terrified of it. There is a clink on the rocks next to me and I know that my time grows short. He is here and we will prepare to meet our final destiny, whatever that may be.

I do not know that I will survive the next five minutes, nor do I know that I will spend the next three years roaming all over the East and spend two of them in Tibet alone. I cannot even begin to comprehend the hundreds of letters I will begin to write him nor do I feel the horrible pangs of guilt that will keep me up at night. I do not have the overwhelming urge to say something, anything to him the first time I glimpse him after my too-long absence as he enters alone into a house missing its mistress. I do not see his face pale and his eyes roll back in his head as I make a completely unnecessary overly dramatic reappearance, only enacted so that I can remain safe in my own element and not have to enter into the sentimentality of his world. I do not hear his words that sting with reproach and well-placed anger.

I do not have the sense of relief so strong that it almost brings tears (_real tears?_) to my eyes as I see the forgiveness in his.

All I know, see, or hear as I gaze upon those misty wraiths rising from the falls is a man arriving at an inn, realizing that he has been deceived by a creature who was his friend, a man that deserves neither his respect nor his loyalty.

I do not write that I am sorry. I make some mention that my actions, though justified, will bring pain to my friends (_friend, only one) _and especially to my dear Watson, but that is all the apology I give. I do have one flash of the second sight, and I know that I will regret this for the rest of my days, even if they only last for the next few moments.

"I am sorry, old friend," I whisper to the smoky ghosts. I turn to face my enemy, his face twisted in a sneer.

What will be, will be.

* * *

It is three years into my future and I sleep my first decent night's sleep since Reichenbach, curled up in a familiar armchair while a faithful doctor sits across from me. He knows that I should be in bed but, under the circumstances, consents to simply let me sleep.

And a peaceful sleep it is.


	9. Old Age

**A/N: **I sincerely apologize for the delay. Student teaching + writing a thesis does not a happy, carefree writer make. Anyhow, enjoy!

_

* * *

The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er;  
So calm are we when passions are no more.  
For then we know how vain it was to boast  
Of fleeting things, so certain to be lost.  
Clouds of affection from our younger eyes  
Conceal that emptiness which age descries._

_The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd,  
Lets in new light through chinks that Time hath made:  
Stronger by weakness, wiser men become  
As they draw near to their eternal home.  
Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view  
That stand upon the threshold of the new._

_- Edmund Waller  
_

* * *

It is another lovely day upon the downs.

This is my favorite time of year, the time that summer silently slips away and fall settles in, the days slowly sinking deeper and deeper down into the pristine solace of winter.

The bees are gently humming in the background and the air smells faintly of salt and of the cleanness that comes after a morning rain. The sun slowly climbs higher and higher in the sky, shrinking the shadows of our chairs and the hives. Besides the bees swirling around their busy homes the entire scene is still. But there is something more than just the stillness that affects me. Yet... Ah. Now I see.

I am struck by how quiet it is.

I do not know how the man who sits beside me has tolerated the incredible silence and peaceful bliss that this countryside brings. When I think about his seemingly infallible well of energy or all the excitement and dangers he managed to get us into I do not know how manages. There is no constant wave of crime here, no East End, no Moriarty, no Milverton, no Smith. I cannot help but smile.

We are no longer young. What should we do if another Moriarty arose in Sussex? I am sure that Holmes would still try to battle him but if there were another fight over the Falls, I do not think my friend should make it out alive.

How terrible strange to be old! The world has grown older and not wiser. It has changed for both the better and the worse and tried to destroy itself and surely it will try again. Men have learned new and more terrible ways to destroy and mutilate the human body and medicine has failed to keep up. Yet through all the madness and laughter and tears we have remained, the detective and his friend. No longer do we tramp through the streets of London in the dead of night as the damp yellow fog creeps around us. Instead we sit upon two chairs outside of a cottage on a lazy September afternoon. Two old men remaining constant while the world spins itself out of control.

There are small differences of course. My hands didn't always used to shake so when I went to check a patients pulse. My companions knees and hands did not seize up from time to time or become so painful that walking or even playing his violin (still with us after all these years) became impossible. I used to be able to find time to visit, yet now I believe that I am here more often than I am in London. My friend once had no time or patience for philosophy, now he speaks of strange, exotic philosophies he picked up while he spent two years in Tibet. Truly, he once asked me recently if life is suffering or if pain is simply a product of the eternal balance between light and dark. I did not know what to say to him. His power to utterly baffle and astonish me has not changed.

I do not think it ever will.

It is unusual how, even though my sight seems to be blurring at the edges, so many aspects of life seem more clear.

I used to regret Afghanistan from beginning to end. I left an entirely different life there on that battlefield, one that was not filled with a constant ache in two of my limbs. It was a life that may have contained an advancement of my army career or a hugely successful personal practice. Perhaps it would have been a life of wealth or children. It would have been an excellent life, one that any man would be proud to have.

But it would have been a life without my greatest friend. A life without dangers, adventure, excitement and that particular insanity found so often when spending time with Sherlock Holmes. It is a life that I would not have sacrificed had anything in this world or the next been offered to me. It is a life that I will continue to enjoy for as long as it lasts.

I glance thoughtfully at the man who has made my last forty five (forty two, I always forget to subtract three) years so interesting. He is gazing out at the field past his beehives, contemplating who knows what sort of grandiose mysteries of the human mind and soul behind those eternal grey eyes. Those eyes suddenly turn towards me and crinkle as the face smiles.

"You never did answer me Watson," he begins. "Pain or simply the retaining of the endless balance of nature?" I open my mouth to cry out, then stop, close it, and smile back.

"Will you never cease to find my bafflement amusing?" I ask. Still smiling he returns to staring out at the emptiness beyond his beehives.

"Not in this life nor the next several to follow," he replies. Somehow I do not think he refers only to his ability to astonish me.

Playfully I give him a gentle shove, then stretch out my legs and lay my head back to rest upon the back of the chair.

I do not know what the next few years will hold, nor do I know how long those few years will last. I do know not think much about the end, as I am sure many men my age are wont to do. I do not worry of the where, the how or the when because ultimately, the worry will not change the inevitable. For myself, I am more concerned with moving through each day and all of its splendor with my friend by my side. I worry of course about Holmes. I truly do not wish to relive those days back in 1890. I do not think this old heart could take the loss once more. But perhaps that would be best really, when it all comes down to it.

We shall sink into the ending veil of night together.

* * *

**A/N:** The philosophies that Holmes is comparing are Buddhism and Taoism, respectively. The first noble truth of Buddhism is that 'Life is Suffering,' while a central precept of Taoism is the eternal balance of nature. This is best summed up in the primary symbol of Taoism, the Yin Yang.


	10. My Garden

**Warning: **Contains criticisms of most major religions.

_

* * *

A GARDEN is a lovesome thing, God wot!_

_Rose plot,_

_Fringed pool,_

_Fern'd grot—_

_The veriest school_

_Of peace; and yet the fool_

_Contends that God is not—_

_Not God! in gardens! when the eve is cool?_

_Nay, but I have a sign;_

_'Tis very sure God walks in mine._

-_ Thomas Edward Brown_

* * *

"I'm sure I don't know what to make of it Holmes," Lestrade says as he shakes his head. "Terrible shame, a man like that..."

He babbles on as I kneel down to examine the body. The black clad figure lies at a strange angle, no doubt having been thrown down to the ground after the killer escaped. Half a rosary is clutched in his right hand, part of the other half lying five feet to the left, with a trail of beads leading back to the corpse. Bruises on the neck indicate strangulation, possibly an interrupted burglary.

"Was anything stolen?" I ask as I move my field of study from the corpse to the surrounding altar. Cigar ashes. Clumps of dirt. Footprints pressed into the deep purple carpet covering the stone floor.

"No," Lestrade replies rather loudly, his voice echoing through the high vaulted chamber. "We consulted with the deacon this morning. Nothing stolen, no one creeping about last night. No grudges. According to all inquiries the man was a saint."

Hm. This calls for an alteration of my initial hypothesis. Still, the scene has revealed to me exactly the type of man who committed the murder, though certainly not why.

"You're looking for a tall man Lestrade, about 6 feet tall. He's dockworker who lives in the East End and smokes cheap cigars.

Lestrade stares at me with that irritating look of his, wry disbelief mixed with awe, like I've just performed some type of absurd miracle. And though I know the type of man that I am looking for, his motives elude me.

Why murder a priest?

* * *

Holmes has been gone for many hours, no doubt attempting to hunt down the creature responsible for the atrocious act discovered this morning. I do believe that this new case has even his mind baffled.

A man, a Catholic priest, is murdered in the very church which has offered absolution to his flock. He lay there, strangled upon the altar like an ancient sacrifice from the Old Testament until the deacon came looking for him in the morning. This man, this Father Moran, who, according to anyone interviewed, was responsible for the deliverance of so many lost souls in this harsh and cruel city. His speech was so passionate in his masses that even Protestant souls were moved by his Catholic words. Holmes has spoken to three of his parishioners that had turned from Lutheran tradition to embrace the crucifix and saints.

The whole crime is completely abhorrent, made all the more difficult by lack of any suspects or witnesses. I do not know what my friend hopes to find in his disguise as a dockworker on this cold night. He is no doubt right now lingering among low men in gambling dens, or sitting in the corner of some public house, his eyes darting under the low brim of his hat, searching each man, perhaps seeing through to their black soul. His ears are straining for that one word or phrase that will be the salvation of the case, the mere utterance that will lead Holmes down twisting dark and foreboding alleyways ripe with sick yellow London fog in his hunt for the hideous criminal. And then he will drag the demon into the light.

But what kind of demon is it that would feign to murder a priest?

* * *

It has been three days since the murder, and Holmes has led us to the creatures den. It is a filthy hovel of a religious zealot. Dozens of crosses are carefully painted on the otherwise cracked and peeling walls. The small, worm eaten table is covered with three copies of the King James Bible accompanied by a mountain of white candle wax that speaks of long nights pouring over the holy words. A pair of old, greasy spectacles lie carefully on an open page of the Book of Revelations. Seemingly the haunt of a poor theologian, but the nature of the man who must reside within suddenly perverts all images that would seem familiar and pleasant.

The man himself is anything but holy. The weight of my revolver in my pocket does little to reassure me against the inevitable confrontation with this strange man that would murder a priest. Holmes tells me that this man is tall, imposing. He will not be dragged off to Scotland Yard with ease and simplicity.

"We will wait here until he returns," Holmes says quietly. I resign myself to the wait and keep my revolver trained upon the door.

* * *

It does not take long.

"And I will destroy your high places, and cut down your images, and cast your carcasses upon the carcasses of your idols, and my soul shall abhor you!" he shouts when Holmes confronts him with his crime upon his entrance. I keep the revolver in full view now, constantly trained on the huge figure in the doorway. 1

"Leviticus is no excuse," says Holmes coldly, with an iron edge to his voice. I chance a look at my friend and am alarmed at his expression. His eyes are bright with fury, not their usual inquisitive edge or delight upon solving a particularly difficult problem. They are set into a face that is pale and set in stone.

"He was bewitching the good people" babbled the murderer. "Turning them to saints and false idols..." He begins to inch into the room along the wall.

"That's far enough," Holmes almost growls as he slowly advances on the criminal. I quietly move into place beside him, keeping the revolver in plain sight."And none of the religious nonsense. Hypocrisy is rather abhorrent." At the mention of the term "religious nonsense," the man cries out a phrase in unintelligible Latin and charges at Holmes. Before I can even think to pull the trigger Holmes already has him in one of his fancy wrestling holds, yet he still struggles. I stride forward an quickly hit him on the side of the head with the end of my revolver to still him. He goes limp and sags forward onto the floor. This is now a job for Scotland Yard.

There are no more outbursts or struggles as the local constables lead him away. He merely babbles Biblical passages of justice and good deeds and righteousness. Holmes stares at his retreating back with disgust.

* * *

"What would he have, the entire human race conform to his blind zealotry?" Holmes shakes his head as he stares into the fire. It has been a full day since the arrest, and the answers are still not clear. The man apparently murdered the priest merely because he has been converting others to Catholicism. Somewhere in his warped brain he believed that the priest was an agent of the devil, tempting London's denizens with false idols and promises, and decided that God had set him the task of vanquishing the devil incarnate. Perhaps there were other motives behind it. I do not know, and if Holmes does he has yet to tell me. The fire that we sit before has no answers for me, nor the sound of the rain and wind from the outside.

"I don't think that's a fair assessment," I reply. "The man was clearly unbalanced. He honestly thought he was destroying something evil in the name of God." Holmes emits something resembling a bitter laugh.

"Then who is to blame?" he asks. "The lying reverends that warped his brain into believing that absurd story? Bah." I am somewhat taken aback by this statement, but allow him to continue. "It has been the story of history Watson," he mutters, flames dancing in his cold grey eyes. "You know the history of the Crusades, I assume?"

"Of course," I reply, "a series of holy wars to take back Jerusalem and the surrounding Holy Lands." Holmes scoffs at my definition and shakes his head.

"Bloodbaths Watson. That's all they were. Bloodbaths between two groups who were driven to murder merely because they didn't pray to the same idol. The Thirty Year's War was just the same. I should perhaps classify that particular event as even more foolish because the two groups were killing each other simply over _how_ to pray to the same false deity." Suddenly his voice grows softer. "Those who wish to change the world according with their desire cannot succeed." 2

I am still reeling from his previous statement. False deity? Surely he does not mean...

He turns to face me, a wry smile on his face.

"It's true Watson. I am an unbeliever." The surprise on my face must be evident, for Holmes lets out a low chuckle at my expression before continuing his explanation.

"There is no god in this world, there never has been, and there never will be. There is no data, no evidence, and therefore no deductions would lead me to conclude of its existence."

Upon a few seconds of further reflection, I am less thunderstruck than I might have been. I have not lived with the man for so many years to not guess at his religious inclining. But still –

"Surely Holmes, even you must recognize the measure of comfort that some receive-" Here he shakes his head.

"Yes, keeping their eyes trained toward the next life while the turn away from the misery in their own? Hoping and wishing for a new life while the world around them spirals into devilry and chaos? Or perhaps relying on a nonexistent being to solve their problems instead of dealing with those issues themselves? Of course I can recognize the utter idiocy in those sentiments. _Stultorum infinitus est numerous_" 3

I straighten my shoulders and face him directly.

"You may believe what you like Holmes, but if you think for one instant that I am about to agree with you, then you-" He laughs lightly once more.

"And drag you down into damnation with me? I should think not my dear Watson. As you say, believe what you like. Believe in the western god, don the turban and prostrate yourself five times a day, curl up in a synagogue and be the subject of hatred and ridicule from "good" Christians, or dot your head and hope to be reincarnated into a higher social class. It is of no concern of mine."

He smiles then, and turns back toward the fire. I do not think that this topic will ever arise again, and so I must venture one further question. I cannot accept that he believes in nothing at all.

"Do you believe in anything Holmes?" I ask quietly. He turns back toward me with a thoughtful expression, and it is some moments before he speaks.

"Meditation," he says finally. "And balance."

With a small smile playing about his lips he once again turns away. I am suddenly stricken by the common image of Holmes sitting in the middle of the sitting room floor upon dozens of pillows like a Turkish pasha, surrounded by smoke as he contemplates a particularly difficult case. The room is full of the smell of his tobacco as he continues to smoke seemingly without end. He does not sleep, he does not eat until some new conclusion has been reached, some new clue suddenly unearthed in the piles of data he sorts through within his mind. As an afterthought, I try to introduce the orange robe of the Thibetan lamas into the scene, but its color and composition upon my friend's tall structure makes the image almost laughable.

Still, I am forced to wonder about the trunk that Holmes brought back with him from the East. It is a wooden trunk that he keeps in the back of the closet that I happened to stumble upon once while cleaning up a mess of case files he had left behind one afternoon. The wooden trunk that is covered with Chinese symbols and smells of sandalwood.

* * *

**A/N:** 1- Leviticus 26:30 King James Version

2 - Tao Te Ching, 29.

3 - Ecclesiastes 1:15. Latin

Sandalwood is used within Buddhism to heighten the meditative experience, making thoughts flow more easily.

I had some trouble writing this, as I've always felt that Holmes couldn't believe in western religions because they rely on faith with no data, and, as the H2G2 argument goes, once one attempts to prove the existence of god, he vanishes in a poof of smoke. Some of the eastern religions that Holmes would have come into contact with during the hiatus, however, ask their followers to believe what they can know themselves through reasoning. Because I believed that Holmes must believe in something, I took Holmes' flippant mention of meeting and spending time with the thirteenth Dalai Lama and ran with it. Please note that not all sects of Buddhism believe that the Buddha was a god, and therefor Holmes can be an atheist while still being able to appreciate elements of the religion. Holmes also has an affinity to Taoism as I have made mention of in several previous stories.


	11. Much madness is divinest sense

_Much madness is divinest sense_

_To a discerning eye;_

_Much sense the starkest madness._

_'T is the majority_

_In this, as all, prevails._

_Assent, and you are sane;_

_Demur, -- you're straightway dangerous,_

_And handled with a chain._

_- Emily Dickinson  
_

* * *

It is cold and rainy and Holmes is out there amongst the horror that is London in the winter, aiding the Yard on some business or another. This has given me quiet and peace in which I had hoped to finish my latest submission for the Strand, but the sun has gone and taken my muse with it. I merely sit at my writing desk, notebook opened and pen still uncapped, waiting in vain for those words to finally swim to the surface of my mind and beg to be immortalized in ink and paper.

In the meantime, I gaze out of the streaming windows and wonder what sort of case Scotland Yard required Holmes' aid so urgently. I slept poorly last night, and when Morpheus finally arrived in the early hours of the morning I found myself compelled to oblige him. I slept till quite late in the morning only managed to share a sparse greeting with Holmes as I was stumbling to the table and he was sprinting out the door, laughing like a madman about the new case.

I believe that the gentlemen of the Yard believe him to be insane at most times, if not all. I myself was guilty of suffering the same thoughts during the first few months of our association.

Indeed, from the tobacco in the slipper, the bullet holes in the wall, the ungodly hours he keeps, his bizarre methods of research and investigation, the sitting room smelling like thirteen different chemicals (each worse than the last!) and that very particular gleam in his eye when he is on a case that truly interests him, I was rather certain of it.

The reactions of the constables to his methods are always amusing, though as time marches on I truly begin to pity the poor chaps. A typical encounter with members of the Yard will consist of Holmes beginning an investigation by crawling on the floor and picking at invisible specks of dust or standing perfectly still while staring at a fixed point on the scene for five minutes or more. Before two minutes have slipped by the constables will be struggling to hide their grins and sniggers. I never fail to notice their barely concealed rudeness, though I'm not sure if Holmes ever hears them, or would care a mite if he did.

It is here, staring at their laughter and almost reading their thoughts that I suffer the most profound sense of indignation on the part of my companion.

Of course, if Holmes is successful, as he often is, the grins turn into expressions of sheepish embarrassment. This is the look that Holmes never failed to notice, the look he relishes in, and the one I often wish that he would fail to see. Yet he will slip back out of the limelight as always, allowing the undeserving constables to take the credit, whether it is Lestrade or Gregson or some unfamiliar investigator. It is here that the sense of indignation returns. The men will laugh at the methods, but never fail to take credit for results that are not their own. It is a kind of plagiarism, a hypocritical plagiarism. I often wonder to myself if I did not start writing my 'dreadful romances' as Holmes calls them merely to restore the cases' conclusion to its rightful owner in the minds of the public.

His disguises are sometimes professional, often ridiculous and almost always excellent. I have seen him come home as a surly cabbie only to rush off as a poor and meek student five minutes later. I have mused upon the theatre's loss of him as an actor many times before and it is a sentiment that I still hold true. I often wonder whether the theatre or the criminal world had a greater loss when Sherlock Holmes' chose his unusual profession.

The methods by which he would expose the perpetrators of crimes to the surrounding onlookers were awe-inspiring and shaming, as he, with the skill of a magician, almost never failed to have a magnificent reveal. It was often unnecessarily dramatic purely for Holmes amusement at the bewilderment of the Yard, myself, and even the criminals who found themselves ensnared in Holmes clever traps.

He has thrown himself into danger far too many times, and not infrequent are the nights where I would bandage a split knuckle, bind a broken wrist, or, heavens forbid, treat a stab or gunshot wound.

Lately, I have taken to accompanying him on his more dangerous cases, despite protests. I have even sought to be a part of the seemingly harmless ones, as Holmes has the unusual and exasperating talent of attracting disreputable company wherever he may venture.

Holmes has some element of madness in his manner to be sure. But they only serve to highlight the fantastic brilliance of his unfathomable mind. It is these elements of madness that have forged him into the genius he is. Without those aspects of his nature, the desire to seek and search where no other would, placing the utmost importance on what others considered trifles, and tearing down preconceptions wherever he went, he would merely be above average.

There is suddenly a commotion upon the stairs and in a moment Holmes comes crashing in, boots covered in mud and completely drenched from the rain. His eyes are gleaming and I know that my peaceful repose has been cut short.

"Come Watson," he half shouts as he tears through the sitting room on the way to his room. "If we hurry to Bethnal Green we'll be just in time to catch a band of counterfeiters!" I rise from my chair and go to collect my hat and coat, and perhaps an umbrella.

"Watson what on earth is taking you so long?" he declares as he emerges from his room with a bundle of papers clutched in his fist. "If we don't head them off we're just going to have to catch them at the docks!" He grins at the thrill of this possible conclusion and begins eyeing the door in anticipation for the moment that I will be ready, tapping his foot to show his impatience, eyes bright all the while. I hurry along, chuckling to myself.

It is through his madness, and his brilliance, that he is the greatest man that I have ever known. 


End file.
